THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 4
The room was cold.
Jessica sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the single barred window high on the wall. The pale light of dawn crept through, painting thin stripes across the concrete floor. She had been here for three days.
Three days since Mr. Scar had dragged her from that basement, his grip bruising her arm, his voice a growl in her ear: "You don’t get to die that easily."
She expected torture. Expected him to break her, to make her scream, to leave her bleeding on the floor like the traitor she was.
But he hadn’t.
And that scared her more.
The room wasn’t a cell, not exactly. It was small, but clean—a bed with stiff white sheets, a bathroom with a shower, even a bookshelf in the corner. The door was heavy steel, locked from the outside. No handles. No way out.
Three times a day, a silent guard slid a tray of food through a slot—rice, stew, fresh fruit. Once, there had been a slice of chocolate cake. Jessica had stared at it, her stomach twisting.
Was this a game?
Mr. Scar hadn’t come to see her. But she felt him anyway—his presence like a shadow under the door, his control absolute.
She was his prisoner.
But she was alive.
On the fourth night, he finally came.
The door opened without warning, and there he stood, filling the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. He wore all black, his scarred face unreadable, his gold watch glinting under the dim bulb.
Jessica scrambled back on the bed, her breath catching.
He stepped inside, letting the door slam shut behind him.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She forced her gaze up, her heart hammering. His eyes were dark, furious, but there was something else there—something she couldn’t name.
"Do you know what I do to traitors?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
She swallowed. "You kill them."
"Yes." He took another step closer. "So why are you still breathing?"
She had no answer.
Mr. Scar paced the room like a caged animal, his fists clenched.
"I should have slit your throat the moment I found out," he snarled. "Should have let Kazeem find your body in the river."
Jessica flinched but didn’t look away.
"Then why didn’t you?" she whispered.
He stopped. Turned. Stared at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
That was the moment she saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes. Not just anger.
Confusion.
He didn’t understand why he hadn’t killed her.
And that terrified him.
Over the next week, Jessica learned two things:
1. Mr. Scar hated her.
2. Mr. Scar protected her.
No one was allowed near her room. Not his men, not the maids, no one. When one of his guards leered at her through the door slot, the man was gone by morning. Rumor said Mr. Scar broke his fingers.
She was kept fed, unharmed, even given books to read. But the door never unlocked.
And every night, like clockwork, he came.
Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he just stared at her in silence, his jaw tight, like he was fighting himself.
Once, in a moment of reckless bravery, Jessica asked:
"What are you waiting for?"
His answer was a low growl. "To figure out why I haven’t killed you yet."
Then came the nightmare.
Jessica woke screaming, sweat soaking her shirt, the memory of Kazeem’s knife at her throat still fresh.
The door burst open. Mr. Scar stood there, gun in hand, his eyes wild.
"What happened?" he demanded.
She trembled, unable to speak.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun.
And did something she never expected.
He sat on the edge of her bed.
"Tell me," he said, his voice rough but not unkind.
So she did.
And for the first time, he listened.
As dawn broke, Mr. Scar stood to leave. But at the door, he paused.
"You’re not leaving this room," he said. "But no one will hurt you. Not even me."
Jessica looked up, exhausted, confused. "Why?"
His hand tightened on the doorframe.
"Because I don’t kill what’s mine."
And with that, he was gone.
TO BE CONTINUED...